Never Been a Hero
by Sorge
Summary: A young university student is thrust into a world of high-speed thrills and intrigue after a chance meeting in the park.
1. Chapter 1

It was a Saturday, the week after finals, which meant no studies. I was free just to relax and spend the day goofing off. I threw my sketchpad in my backpack and took the bus downtown.

The sun was warm in the bright air, and the reflection off of the glass panes on buildings dazzled. I bought a hot dog at a vendor's cart and walked the streets at a leisurely pace, enjoying the sunlit afternoon. I relished these chances to get away. They made me feel like a man out on the town, free to make my own way however I liked, free from the tyranny of structured education. Not that I minded it much: the coursework interested me, and I had enough natural talent to make my way on a partial scholarship. Still, I have always been a believer that the stuff of an artist's inspiration is in the streets and the countryside rather than in textbook pages.

The city's natural downhill slope eventually drew my feet to its center, a pleasant little park ringed by high-rise apartments and corporate towers. It's called the Victory Garden, a reminder of the war that nearly saw our planet destroyed by the black aliens. This space is actually the footprint of the former Loyd-Lockman financial building, a casualty of the war. It's always struck me funny that those rich and powerful men accustomed to guessing the future before it happens never foresaw the the ruin that came so suddenly upon them.

The park is paved with the rubble. Now children play here and little green shoots of grass poke up between the paving stones. There are benches for sitting, trails for jogging and colorful beds of roses. There are enough banks in the city already; admittedly, this place makes a better park.

In the middle of the park, ringed in bubbling fountains, stands a bronze statue of our world's greatest hero, Sonic the Hedgehog. He stands larger than life upon a marble pedestal surrounded by glittering copper coins, surveying the park with a carefree grin. An unseen wind tousles his spines and his eyes blaze in the sun.

Everyone loves Sonic. He's saved our world on more occasions than one. All of our politicians want to meet him and all of our kids want to be him.

Me? I'm not sure what I'd do if I got the chance to meet the hero of our planet. Maybe I'd ask for his autograph or try to draw him. I guess there's just one thing I'd really like to ask him: _Why? Why do you do it?_

I don't think he saves the world for glory or statues in the park. He doesn't go through all that pain and trouble just to have a good time, just because he can. I think he does it because he wants to, because he knows he's the _only_ one who can.

No matter how many times we reject him, accuse him or brand him a criminal, he still fights for us, to protect us from things that we cannot understand. Some call him a sham, a thrill-seeker pretending selflessness for personal gain, but I think that's who he truly is: selfless.

The statue shone in the sun, and I made the decision unconsciously. There was an empty bench directly across the path, and I settled down with my sketchpad to draw it. I began filling out his frame with a carpenter's pencil, broad, bold lines that slowly took shape under my hand. A recognizable figure began to emerge from the page, Sonic the Hedgehog grinning roguishly up at me with one gloved hand on his hip. It took a few tries to get the eyes right, and even after several revisions, I wasn't wholly satisfied with the outcome.

So absorbed was I that I barely noticed as another took a seat on the side opposite of me. A shadow fell across the page, and I politely turned my head to see an elderly man appraising my work with curiosity.

"Do you like it?" I asked, tilting the page to give him a better view. "It's Sonic."

He shook his head and pursed his lips sourly.

"No, the eyes are all wrong."

I glanced to my subject and back to the page. They were perhaps a little off, but I had to admit that the likeness was striking.

"No, no," the old man said, following my gaze. "That's not your fault. The statue is wrong, it looks nothing like him."

"Well, have you met him?" I inquired, still a little stung.

He nodded.

"I have."

I shut my sketchpad. Now it was my turn to give him my attention.

"During the war," he explained, tugging on his trouser leg. "Sonic saved my life." He lifted his leg to show me a glistening scar.

"Were you a soldier?" I asked eagerly.

He shook his head wistfully.

"No, I was an English professor. I got caught up in the evacuation just like everybody else."

"What happened?" I asked, hoping for the rest of the story. "Were you okay?"

He looked at me heavily and I shrank from his gaze, fidgeting with my sketchpad.

"Not really," he said finally. "A lot of people died."

"I'm sorry," I muttered, looking at the ground. "I didn't mean to offend you. My city wasn't hit very hard, and... well, I was just curious, that's all."

To my surprise, he laughed, a dry, throaty sound that ended in a fit of coughing, but there was mirth in his eyes.

"Do you think I was never young?" He smiled through crooked teeth. "It is hard to be a student, I know. So boring. A story from the war sounds exciting, no?"

I smiled sheepishly.

He clapped me on the back.

"I don't blame you. To be fair, it was very exciting! Sometimes I look back and I am tempted to be depressed by what I remember, but then I tell myself that it really did me a whole world of good. Before those black aliens came, I thought I'd be content to live out the remainder of my days in the service of Academia. It was a rotten life, you understand. Do not ever suppose the quest for knowledge to be the calling that will fulfil you. There is nothing in it for a lonely heart."

He laughed again. "Certainly, you cannot take knowledge to bed with you! Without that shake-up, I would never have met my Margret." He looked at me keenly, a smile on his lips though his eyes betrayed some sadness. "But you don't want to hear about the love life of old men, do you?"

I deferred politely and asked to hear the rest of the story.

"I did meet Sonic," he said, gesturing to the statue. "But he was different—smaller, shorter. And when he ran, he ran like the wind itself."

"And you said he saved you?"

He nodded wistfully.

"Yes, across the river, where the third-street bridge used to be. I was there when it fell." He sighed, and I could see that the memory troubled him. "Everyone on the east side of the river was trying to cross over and go south, and everyone on the south side was trying to cross over and go east. Everyone was on foot. It was pandemonium. People were... jumping, or falling off the bridge, six stories down. Pandemonium."

He paused, choked. I gave him time, slipping a reassuring arm over his shoulder. He pressed into me, but I could tell that his thoughts were miles away, back on that bridge. He opened his mouth and the words came tumbling out.

"There were kids, three of them—younger than you, two boys and a little girl, just crying their eyes out in the backseat of a car." His face flushed in anger. "I guess their parents just left them, or maybe they got out and couldn't get back because of the crowd, I don't know. It made me mad, I wasn't thinking. So I pulled them out and grabbed their hands..." His hands flexed unconsciously. "And the youngest one, the little girl, I picked her up and she just put her arms around my neck and wouldn't let go..."

He stopped again, his eyes watering at the corners. I offered him a bit of paper torn from my sketchpad and he dabbed at his eyes before continuing.

"I looked around for a fireman, a cop, a soldier—anybody, but there was no one. There were aliens on both sides of the river and they were just shooting anything. Everyone was jumping in the river at this point, and I think I would have too if not for these three kids. There was a lot of debris in the water, and people were landing on it. I thought: 'no, these kids won't make it if we jump', and I could barely swim myself. I thought we could hide in a car, maybe, but we never made it."

He gestured wildly with his hands, miming an explosion.

"There was this... _awesome_ flash, and the loudest sound you've ever heard, and I got blown off my feet and all cut up by shrapnel and I thought: 'that's it, they've bombed us, we're all dead'. The bridge broke up into great big pieces and all the people and cars were sliding off into the water. All the concrete was falling off and it was just the metal and the frame left over."

"You didn't go into the water?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"No. We were lucky. It was all just twisted steel and it was coming apart before our eyes. The boy kept asking me 'What do we do? What do we do?' and I didn't know."

"And that's when you met him? Sonic?"

He nodded absently.

"Yes, that's when I met him. We heard him coming before we saw him, like a rushing wind. He came leaping and jumping over that gap, clearing twenty feet like it was nothing! He stopped right in front of me and held out his hands for the girl."

He pointed at the statue again.

"He wasn't smiling like that when I saw him, that's for sure. Not in the middle of all that chaos. There was a fire in his eyes; anger, compassion, outrage at all the senseless destruction, I don't know. But from the second I saw his eyes, I knew I could trust him. Here was someone who felt all the same ways as the rest of us, but he had the power to make it right. All that sensationalist journalism that would have you believe that he's some kind of loose-cannon menace is a bunch of crap!"

He pounded his fist on the park bench for emphasis. "One look in his eyes, and you'll say: 'now there's someone I can trust!'"

"I believe it," I said, nodding my head. "Please, continue."

"Well, he took the kids, one by one and carried them to safety the same way he'd come. It was like they weighed nothing at all! The funny thing is, that little girl who hadn't let go of my neck since I'd picked her up just let go and went with him the second he asked!"

"Children are pretty good judges of character," I offered, trying to sound sagely.

"Probably," the old man shrugged. "Either that or she knew him from some TV show and thought he was one of her toys all grown up and come to save her."

I smiled. Sonic X had been one of my favorite shows growing up.

"And you?"

He snorted.

"You should have seen me, flopping around like a ragdoll in his arms, twice his size. Probably helps that I'm so old, my bones are all hollow. But he never missed his footing."

"Is he really as fast as they say?"

His eyes glimmered.

"Faster."

"And what happened then?"

He shrugged.

"We won, I got older. Married my sweetheart and I'm due to take that little girl on her first driving lesson tomorrow, god help us." He rolled his eyes and I had to laugh.

"Good for you," I laughed. "That was a great story. Thanks for sharing." I proffered my hand. "I never caught your name. I'm Chris."

He took my hand and shook it warmly.

"Miguel. Thank _you _for listening, young man. It was good to share my story. I hope that you will make note of it the next time you are drawing our mutual friend."

I laughed and promised that I would. But I had one last question for him.

"Did you ever see him again?" I asked.

He laughed suddenly, though I wasn't sure why.

"Goodness, no! Once ought to be enough for anybody. I doubt I'd have much to say to him anyway. He's the wind and I'm just an old stone gathering moss."

"How about 'thank you'?" I persisted, grinning.

"Thank you? Yes, I believe I have said that already, though..." A curious expression crossed his face and he smiled. "Tell me," he said evenly. "Am I correct in assuming that you have never met Sonic the Hedgehog?"

I admitted that I had not.

"Would you like to?"

The question caught me off guard, and I fumbled for a response.

"Well, yes, of course," I stammered. "Who wouldn't?"

He leaned on his cane, appraising me with his eyes.

"Why?"

"Well," I said carefully, "In truth, he's pretty famous. But I'd really like to see what he's like for myself, see if he's really the way they say he is."

"Which way is that?"

"Fast," I said, "bold, carefree."

He nodded.

"And you? Who do you think he is?"

I paused, searching for the right words.

"Selfless," I said haltingly, "kind. Someone to trust."

He looked at me as though he were musing to himself. His bushy eyebrows flared as though he were deep in thought.

"Well, it's settled then," he said finally. "I'm old, and you're still young. You'd better have this."

He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small item wrapped up in white sandwich paper. He held it out and I took it in my hands. It was warm, about the size of an orange and hard to my touch like a stone. I loosened the wrapping and gently shook the object out.

I gasped in surprise as a large gemstone, larger than any I had ever seen before tumbled into my hand. It was striking blue and caught the sun magnificently, sparkling as though alight with some inner fire. It's facets were so hard and finely cut that they seemed to have been sculpted by a laser. I looked at the man questioningly, holding the gemstone out to him in protest.

"Sir, what is this? I can't..." I began, but he waved my protests down.

"Put it away!" he hissed. "That's a very important stone!"

At his insistence, I stuffed the jewel in my pocket, but I had many questions.

"What is this? Why are you giving it to me?" I asked, prying for more information.

"That's a Chaos Emerald," he said evenly. "It's said to be a physical manifestation of the forces that keep this world in balance. There are thought to be seven in the world, and there are no stones like it. This one is mine, and I'm giving it to you."

I wasn't sure I understood, but I realized that he had already made up his mind on the matter. However, I wasn't quite ready to let that be the end of it.

"Well, thank you, but what am I supposed to do with it?"

"Keep it hidden, keep it safe! It's a very powerful artifact! Every time something goes wrong in this world, you can bet that these stones are right in the middle of it. They are drawn to great changes like a moth is drawn to a flame. They may even cause these changes themselves in the name of balance."

"But why give it to me?" I protested, feeling as though I might be caught up in more than I cared to be part of.

"These stones have great power for good or ill, depending on who holds them. You and I cannot wield them, but we can hold them for those who can. Power calls out to the powerful, and sooner or later, someone will seek it out. What is better, that such a gem should be left lying in an open field with no one to ward it, or that it be in the hands of someone responsible like you or I?"

"But how did you come by it?" I persisted, unsure whether having such a dangerous object in my possession would be a good idea.

"Many years of searching," he explained, "and many more of tireless research. My connections in the world of academia served me well in this regard. At last, I found one. Sonic the Hedgehog saved my life and gave me more than I ever could have asked for. When the stones are separated, their potential for evil is diminished. Thus have I returned his favor, keeping the world at least a little safer since that day. But now I am old, and I cannot protect this artifact forever. Sooner or later, someone will come searching for it, and someone will have to be there to ensure that it does not fall into the hands of those who would work its power for evil."

"I understand, but what can I really do if someone like Doctor Eggman comes looking for it?"

He shrugged.

"That's up to you. Run, hide, do whatever you have to to keep it safe. But there is one thing you must promise me."

"What's that?"

"You must never regard it as yours. It is not to be sold, misused, or given away unless your life is in peril." His eyes flashed in good humor. "And even then, I expect you to be resourceful. You are only keeping it for a friend."

My eyes fell on the statue of Sonic and I understood.

"I understand. I'll do my best to keep it safe," I said solemnly, recognizing that this man was placing the continuation of his life's work on my shoulders. Just because I'd listened to his story. Or maybe it was more than that? Did he see a little bit of Sonic's fire... in me?

"There's a good lad. Good luck, and thank you!" He waved and hobbled away without a backward glance.

I stood motionless, the sun burning hot on my forehead. What had I gotten myself into? I locked eyes with the statue and laughed. The wind was blowing, and I had inadvertently blundered into it. The Chaos Emerald felt heavy and warm in my pocket, and I closed my fist around it. I'd keep it a while for a friend; I could do that much.


	2. Chapter 2

For all its luster, the Chaos Emerald in my possession never gave any sign of being more than just a pretty stone. Since that day I've kept it in my drawing table drawer under lock and wrapped up in aluminium foil in an attempt to keep it from calling out to anyone or poisoning me in my sleep. Call me paranoid, but I guess it must have worked, because we've had three years of relative peace without any alien invasions or planet-threatening crisis popping up.

But the appearance of impotence is a façade in such stones as these. They despise inactivity, calling out to each other across vast expanses, longing to be re-united. They harbor power of a violent, turbulent nature, and attract troubled souls. Power calls to power, and those with the aptitude might sense them. It's said that the Chaos Emeralds can sense the nature of powerful souls, and take on their qualities for good or ill. The forces locked away within them can be masked, but never hidden. The stone calls ever out to be claimed and mastered, a clear, sharp cry for any with the ears to hear.

I don't have such ears. I used to take it out and look at it every night, plumbing its crystalline depths, trying to unlock its power. As I gradually realized that it wasn't going to do anything spectacular, I began to lose interest. It was a curiosity, an interesting but useless bauble. As life grew more and more hectic, the stone and its responsibility grew further from my mind until I nearly forgot it altogether. But such a gem cannot forget its own nature. It called ever out, and one day, there came an answer.

The streetlights were flicking on outside in an imperfect cascading fashion and it was snowing softly out the window when my phone rang. Lost in my work, I nearly upended the inkwell atop the technical blueprint I'd been meticulously drawing. With irritation, I picked up the phone and swiped the screen to answer.

"Hello?"

"Are you awake?" asked an all-too-familiar voice.

"Tanya?" I asked dumbly, feeling my stomach flip over.

"Sorry to call so late. I need you to do something for me." It was a typically demanding statement, and I bristled. But there was a pained note in her voice that I couldn't ignore. With an effort, I put my emotions aside.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Brick, he's been drinking."

"Did he hurt you?" I asked sharply, feeling my temper flare.

"No, he's just being a drunken idiot. I'm worried for him."

"Do you want me to come over?" I asked, exasperated.

"I don't know. He's not here, he left an hour ago."

"Okay," I said grudgingly. "Any idea where he might go? Did he take the truck?"

"Yeah." There was a pause. "There's a place on 33rd where he goes. He doesn't think I know about it."

I clenched my teeth in exasperation, then let it go. Now was not the time to take her to task on her choice in men.

"Okay," I said. "I'll go see if he's there. Listen, if he comes back and he's still out of control, call the cops, okay?"

"I'm _fine,_" she bit out, sounding aggravated. "I can handle it."

"Okay," I said again, not sure what else to say. "Bye."

"Bye."

I don't know who hung up first. I took the wet stairs two at a time, heedless of the thin crust of snow. My car turned over on the third try, and I backed out into the street without looking. The roads were empty and recently plowed. Tiny flakes swirled in my headlights. I drove on autopilot, lulled by the gentle lapping rhythm of the wipers and the tires.

I found the address; a dilapidated tavern squatting vilely on a piece of tarmac between a fire-gutted restaurant and a smut shop with blacked-out windows. I grimaced. This was not the sort of place I frequented.

Brick's truck was in the parking lot. I wrapped a checkered scarf tightly around my neck and stepped out into the cold night air. My ears tingled wetly as snowflakes drove against them. Someone had gone overboard salting the walk. The whole strip was a mess of grey sludge that crunched unappealingly underfoot.

I pushed through the peeling oak doors and was immediately assaulted by the poisonous smell of the place, something between dried vomit and marijuana smoke. I tried not to dwell on the stickiness of the carpet under my shoes as I strolled up to the bar, careful not to rest my elbows on it. The woman behind the bar could not have been a day over thirty, but she spoke with a voice reminiscent of one who'd spent a lifetime smoking a pack a day, unfiltered.

"Sorry, can't serve you. We're closing in five minutes," she grunted, hardly looking up.

"That's alright. I'm here for someone."

"Wouldn't happen to be that guy over the there, would it?" she asked wryly.

I followed her gaze and lit on a figure apparently asleep on a table in the back corner.

"As a matter of fact, it would," I sighed. "He give you any trouble?"

"No more than what we're used to. Came in here a little rowdy, but he quieted down some once he started on the shots. Started slipping him water once he stopped paying."

"Thanks," I muttered. "I'll get him home."

I left her to the cleanup and stalked over to the slumped figure with my thumbs hooked through my belt. He seemed dead asleep in a puddle of liquor, though the table had been bused while he slept. I tapped him on the shoulder. He didn't even stir. I shook him again, a little harder, this time eliciting a muffled groan of protest. I dodged under a weak backhand swipe of his arm and took him firmly by the shoulders.

"Brick," I said firmly. "Wake up." His eyes flickered open, and he turned his stubbly head to look up at me blearily. "Come on buddy," I said, exerting a little pressure on his shoulders. "Time to go home."

"I don't want to," he slurred petulantly. "Let me sleep."

He started to slip back under, but I shook him awake.

"I'm taking you to a place where you can sleep," I explained. "Nice comfy bed. Come on, you can sleep on the way."

He protested half-heartedly as I hoisted him to his feet, and I grunted with the exertion as I felt most of his weight sag against me. I placed one of his arms over my shoulder and got him walking, careful not to lose momentum, or I doubted we'd get moving again.

We stumbled outside, and the cold air seemed to invigorate him slightly. His head popped up and groggily scanned the parking lot.

"My keys," he mumbled. "I need my keys."

"No you don't," I admonished. "You're not driving anywhere tonight."

"My truck..."

"Your truck will be fine. You can come get it tomorrow."

He seemed to take my words at face value, and I was grateful that he didn't seem to be in an argumentative mood. I got him in the passenger seat of my car and strapped him in. By the time I got around to the driver's side, he'd already passed out.

I shook my head. Now what? Taking him back to his place seemed the logical choice, but I wasn't sure I wanted to dump him on his fiance in this state. Plus, I wasn't sure if I was ready to see her again so soon.

That left my flat. I ground my teeth at the ignominy. I had a presentation due in the morning and I hadn't figured on taking care of a burly, ex-con drunk tonight. Lucky me.

The ride home was uneventful, and thankfully brief. My passenger managed to avoid choking to death on his own puke and even managed to come around enough to extricate himself without assistance. We took the stairs as well as could be expected, with a few bruised shins and a good deal of cursing, and by the time we reached my floor, he was looking decidedly ill.

Setting him against the wall, I made to push my key into the lock, but the door swung up at my touch. I stepped back in surprise. Had I left it unlocked? It wasn't like me.

My investigation was interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet, and I turned just in time to see my wasted companion stagger to the balcony and be sick over the edge, managing to leave a little of himself on all three floors.

"Nice," I said sardonically, leaning over the railing to appreciate the destruction he'd wrought. "At least that wasn't my car."

"Sorry," he said weakly, before doubling over and retching again.

Once I was confident that he'd got it all up, I showed him inside and made extra sure to lock the door behind us. I sat him down on the couch, got him a towel to clean up and put on a pot of coffee before pulling up a chair across from him. I appraised him quietly. His eyes were hollow and sunken, and he looked as though he were making a conscious effort to stay awake.

"Chris, right?" he slurred, forcing his eyes to focus. "The starving artist?"

"Yeah," I said flatly. "What's going on, man? Tanya is worried about you."

"Did she call?" he muttered, massaging his temples. "I had a few drinks."

"I've noticed."

"Sorry," he said tiredly. He sank back with a sigh. "Could you call her?"

"Why don't you?" I said, holding out the phone.

He mumbled something incoherent and rolled over to face away from me. No amount of shaking could rouse him—he'd passed out. I shook my head.

"I hope your headache kills you."

I decided not to continue my work that night. I dimmed the lights to a comfortable glimmer and poured the leftover coffee down the drain. There were a few steps to my nightly ritual, and I performed them with careful reverence. Brush, floss, hang up jacket, chuck my shoes across the room.

For whatever reason, my aim was a little off. One of my shoes struck home, and the other landed in the waste bin by my desk, tipping it over. Waste paper spilled over the floor. I wish that had been the end of it: a few loose papers and a minor inconvenience. I reached out my hand to right it.

Do you know the feeling you get when you sense the proximity of another, a slight movement out of the corner of your eye, a whiff of an unfamiliar scent, a subtle movement of the air? Every hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Something was wrong. From behind the desk, from what I had taken for a very deep shadow, a towering black shape _stood up _and loomed over me, cloaked and hooded in pitch-black attire.

I will admit to making a very effeminate noise as I staggered backward. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to flee, but my right hand knew its business better than the rest of my body, and slung a hard, unguided fist at the thing's center mass. Big mistake: it was like punching a concrete wall. I blanched and fled the room, sluggish and uncoordinated as though in a dream.

The figure came stepping softly after me, all the more terrible to behold as it stooped through the door and straightened up to its full height in the vaulted ceiling of the loft. Taller than any human, its face hidden beneath a peaked cowl, it came gliding toward me, one black-garbed hand extended with a wickedly curved blade, thin and razor sharp, like a surgeon's scalpel. It moved with robotic precision, eating up the ground between us, shrouded in a nameless terror.

I froze. It stood between me and the front door. My heart was hammering out of my chest and I felt dull and uncoordinated. Adrenaline was making my knees weak, and though I fought to speak, no coherent sound came out of my mouth.

I thought of seizing a weapon, a knife, something heavy to defend myself with, but my knees buckled and I fell. The dark figure drew up to me, and cocked its head, as though it were a predator sizing me up.

"Please... don't!" I managed, struggling to sit up.

My protest only seemed to focus its attention. Instead of raising its blade for the killing stroke, it knelt to my height and seemed to stare me directly in the eyes. It had no face. There was only web of featureless black gauze where its eyes and mouth should have been, and it was all the more horrifying for it. With shocking speed, something burst from the center of its face, a long hypodermic needle that drove for my neck.

I threw up my hands, managing to ward off the lethal kiss, but its strength was crushing. I beat it off with my hands, but it drew back and thrust again, trying to pin my arms out of the way. I wept in desperation as it continued to thrust against me again and again, animalistic in its single-minded intent to stick my exposed flesh with its terrible proboscis.

Suddenly, the weight on top of me was torn away and my assailant tumbled to the floor, its needle cleanly snapping off on impact. With a yell, the burly ex-con fell on the creature with both knees, smashing its face in with a toaster oven. It thrashed and slashed at the air with its curved blade, but he continued to batter it with the heavy appliance, shouting and cursing as he brought the makeshift weapon down with both hands until its movements ceased.

His wide-eyed expression echoed mine as we shared a glance, and his ensuing expletive was long and heartfelt.

"Thanks," I gasped, too shocked to do more than lie against the sink trembling in horror.

"What the hell is _that?_" he shouted, hauling me to my feet.

"I-I don't know," I stammered, backing away from the ungainly lump of black fabric on the ground. "It was in the bedroom." I stumbled to the light and flicked them on, banishing the shadows.

"Stay here!" my guest ordered, snatching up a knife from the counter. He moved cautiously to the bedroom door, weapon at the ready. He paused a moment, listening. Gesturing at me to stay put, he pushed inside. Ten seconds later, he re-emerged, shaking his head. "It's clear."

"What do we do now?" I gasped, still feeling the effects of adrenaline. "Should I call the cops?"

"Not yet. I want to see what we're dealing with." Before I could protest, he straddled the figure and pulled back its hood. He spat in disgust and shook his head. "That's what I thought," he said, pulling back the cloak to expose the figure's metallic skull. "Robot."

"A robot?" I asked, forgetting my fear. "Is it dead?"

"Well they don't come assembled _alive," _he scoffed, yanking a cluster of wires from the back of the android's head. "But yeah, this one is certifiably deactivated." Its fist shot out with a hiss of servos, and he nonchalantly plunged his knife hilt-deep into its face. The fist relaxed. "Well, now it is, anyway."

"What the hell is it doing in my apartment?"

"I don't know. Did you order a killer robot?"

"What do you think?" I shot back.

He shrugged glibly.

"I don't know. There are all kinds of fetishes these days." He cut away a long strip of cloth along the android's torso. A string of identifying serial numbers was clearly visible. "Ah, I know what this is."

"Some kind of medical assistant, right?" I asked, leaning in for a closer look.

"That's right," he said, unimpressed. "How did you know that?"

"When it attacked me, it used a scalpel and a syringe. Not your typical assassin's weapons. Unless I miss my guess, the _'CS' _on its chest stands for—"

"Combat Surgeon, that's right," Brick said, clearly annoyed. "And I thought you arts majors were supposed to be dumbasses. I've seen these before. The army uses them."

"What was it trying to stick me with?" I asked, shuddering at the recollection.

"Don't know. Could have been anything from a sedative to a muscle-relaxant. Judging from the way it came at you though, I'd wager it was probably trying to give you a lethal dose of something."

"Why the hell would it come in here? Who sent it? Why is it dressed like a _damn_ ninja?"

"I don't know. You're not wanted by the government for anything, are you?"

"No, but..." I stopped. The drawer. Had it been open? I sprinted to the bedroom.

The drawer was covered in pick marks, but it was still locked. I tore it open, relieved to find that the Chaos Emerald was still inside. I fished it out and inspected it keenly, looking for obvious defects. Once I was confident that it was the genuine article, I stuffed it in my pocket.

My mind whirled a thousand miles an hour as I stalked back into the common room. It was nearing midnight, and I had nearly been euthanized by a killer robot. Had it been after my Chaos Emerald? It seemed the obvious connection. Could I stay here?

The old man's words echoed in my mind: _run, hide, keep it safe—_to say nothing of my own concerns. I grimaced and began throwing some clothes into a bag. I wasn't sure I wanted this responsibility anymore. I had to find someone trustworthy to pass it off to. Someone like Sonic. How the hell did you do that, anyway? Take out an ad in the newspaper? Put it up on a billboard? _"Found: Chaos Emerald. Must be hedgehog to claim."_

Shouldering my bag, I left the room at a jog.

"Come on, we're leaving," I called, fumbling with the door.

"What about him?" Brick asked, prodding the fallen robot with his toe.

"Forget him, we've got to go before his buddies show up."

"Is someone after you? What did you do?"

"It's not me they're after, it's something I have. I'll explain later, let's just go!"

"Where to?"

"I don't know, anywhere but here!"

He swiped the keys from my hand.

"I know a place."

I grabbed them back, fuming.

"No way. You're still drunk off your ass. I'm dropping you by your place and that's it. I don't want you getting involved."

"Are you going to deal with the next killer robot that comes after you, then? Because you were doing a great job of it last time."

He had a point.

"Okay, but I'm driving. Where to?"

"My place," he said. "We'll pick up some stuff and go from there."

"When did it become _'we'_ all of the sudden?" I snapped. "I don't want you or Tanya involved. It's my problem!"

"It became _my problem_ when I killed a seven-foot-tall robot in your living room," he snarled. "I want to know who did sent it and why. Sticking with you seems like the quickest way to find out. Now let's go."

I wasn't sure I trusted him completely, but there didn't seem to be any point in saying so. He'd got his back up with that same stubbornness that I'd always hated about him, and it was clear that he was out for blood. Thankfully, none of that aggression seemed to be directed at me this time. It was an unusual arrangement. I wondered how long this uneasy truce would last. And just who could I trust with my secret?


End file.
